Rain Clouds & Poems.

It has been pouring rain all morning in Manhattan. In the distance it took me to walk three blocks to the subway station I managed to soak my jeans all the way to the ankle range. What good are umbrellas when it rains in this city?

Rainy days make me want to curl up with a steaming mug of tea, a cozy afghan blanket, and a good book of poetry. This poem is a good start.

I am going to carry my bed into New York City tonight
complete with dangling sheets and ripped blankets;
I am going to push it across three dark highways
or coast along under 600,000 faint stars.
I want to have it with me so I don't have to beg
for too much shelter from my weak and exhausted friends.
I want to be as close as possible to my pillow
in case a dream or a fantasy should pass by.
I want to fall asleep on my own fire escape
and wake up dazed and hungry
to the sounds of garbage grinding in the street below
and the smell of coffee cooking in the window above.

Vandam, Gerald Stern